She hastily closed her books, hurried back to her apartment, and began packing. Grabbing her violin case, she stepped out into the biting winter cold.

He had insisted that Stacy learn to play the violin, and her hands still bore the calluses from hours of practice.

The snow was falling thick and fast, blanketing the ground in white. The icy wind cut through her coat, seeping into her bones.

Downstairs, he stood under the streetlamp, a black coat draped elegantly over his tall frame, his phone pressed to his ear. He appeared composed, even serene, as if the cold didn’t touch him. When his gaze fell on Stacy, however, a flicker of impatience crossed his sharp, flawless features.

Snowflakes dusted his dark hair, settling like tiny white blooms on his forehead. He noticed and brushed them away, his movements deliberate. She instinctively averted her gaze.

Before Stacy could gather her thoughts, the man ended his call, striding toward her with purpose.

He took her hand, the sudden contact sending a jolt through her. Stacy froze, her mind spinning. Reacting instinctively, she pulled her hand back with too much force.

Pat stopped in his tracks, his expression darkening. She looked up at him, startled, and saw anger etched on his face.

His sharp gaze pinned her in place, his voice cutting through the silence like the winter wind. "Get in the car."

His tone was as cold and unyielding as his icy hands.

Pat Taylor—the only son of the powerful Taylor family—had been spoiled his entire life. Now the head of the family, his authority was absolute, and defiance was rare. His anger was both expected and feared.

Stacy lowered her head, saying nothing, and climbed into the back seat without protest.

As she settled in, she watched him through the window. His face, already clouded with irritation, seemed to grow darker. She couldn’t help but wonder what had upset him this time.

He got into the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut with enough force to shake the car.

They drove off quickly, the snow-covered scenery blurring past. Stacy stared out the window, lost in thought. Perhaps he was angry because she had pulled away. Perhaps it was because she had kept him waiting.

Or maybe his anger had no reason at all. It was hard to talk with him.

Her mind wandered. His temper was constant, his irritation frequent. Over time, she had stopped trying to understand him.

Breaking the silence, Pat’s voice was sharp yet casual. "Have you been busy lately? How’s your piano practice coming along?"

The familiar question took Stacy by surprise. She glanced at his profile, her lips curving into a bitter smile.

Her thoughts drifted back to the past. She remembered how captivated she had been by his handsome face when they first met. People said Pat preferred gentle, cultured women—those skilled in piano, chess, calligraphy, and painting.

When he had asked her what she studied in college, Stacy had answered "music," hoping to impress him.

To win his favor, she had taken up the violin. But Pat had dismissed her efforts as inadequate. Determined to make her better, he’d hired a renowned teacher to train her.

All of that felt like a distant memory now.

She touched the violin case beside her and replied quietly, "I’ve been dealing with some things these past two weeks. I didn’t have time to practice."

In truth, she had been too busy taking care of Macey to think about anything else.

The car fell silent again, tension filling the air. Stacy caught sight of Pat’s furrowed brows in the rearview mirror.

Suddenly, he stepped hard on the accelerator. The car lurched forward, and Stacy’s head slammed into the backrest. Pain flared through her nose, and her eyes stung with unshed tears.

Pat glanced at her through the mirror, an enigmatic smile playing on his lips. "Sorry, the road’s slippery," he said, his tone laced with amusement.

Stacy murmured softly, "It’s okay."

Satisfied with her response, he leaned back, his earlier moodiness dissipating. "I’ve been busy with work lately. Go see Tara Hester for me tomorrow."

"Yes," she replied without hesitation.

Tara, once comatose, had always been more important to Pat than Stacy could ever be. Even when Stacy played the violin, it was Tara who listened from her hospital bed.

After Tara’s miraculous recovery, Pat became convinced that Stacy’s playing had contributed to her awakening. Since then, he’d insisted Stacy visit Taylor’s restaurant every few days to play for Tara. This recent gap had been the longest yet.

But Stacy didn’t want to go.

Hearing her agreement, Pat glanced at her through the mirror, his tone softening slightly. "You’ve lost weight."

Stacy offered a faint smile, saying nothing. She thought of Macey. If Pat’s sister were ill, perhaps she would look even more worn out than Stacy did now.

Stacy never told Pat she had a sister. The fewer people who knew about Macey's work and identity, the fewer problems it would bring. But the truth was, Pat never asked about her family. In his mind, Stacy had always been nothing more than a wild girl from a poor, remote village.

As Stacy watched his retreating figure, a glimmer of hope flickered. Maybe, just maybe, there was still a chance.

Back then, Macey had returned to America, gravely ill. Stacy hoped Pat could help connect her with a skilled doctor in Canada. But on her way to meet him, she was involved in a car accident. She remained unconscious in the hospital for three days, and by the time she woke up, Macey was gone, leaving only a note behind.

Despite her failing health, Macey had rushed back to continue her experiments, ignoring Stacy's pleas. When the illness finally caught up to her, it was too late—she was diagnosed with advanced cancer, beyond the reach of effective treatment.

Stacy had sent a desperate text to Pat, but his reply came weeks later. By then, everything had changed.

She had once seen Pat outside his company, separated from him by just a single street. She ran to him, hoping for even a shred of acknowledgment, but he drove away without looking back. If only he had cared a little more… would things have turned out differently?

The memory brought a pang of regret. Stacy couldn't forgive herself. The accident had hurt more than just her and Macey; it had shattered what little hope she had left.

Now, standing amidst the aftermath, Stacy no longer blamed Pat. The fault was hers for putting her faith in him, for trusting a man to fix what was broken. She swore she would never make that mistake again.

When they arrived at Taylor’s restaurant, Stacy noticed Jeanie Hoover, the nanny, waiting at the door. She was gently pushing Tara’s wheelchair.

Pat seemed restless. The moment he turned off the car, he urged Stacy to get out quickly. He walked over to Tara and knelt in front of her, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

The pale girl in the wheelchair smiled weakly, but even speaking a few words left her coughing. Against the bitter wind, she looked even more fragile.

"Tara, it’s freezing out here. Who told you to come outside?" Pat’s sharp gaze landed on Jeanie, who flinched under his scrutiny, unsure of how to respond.

Despite the reprimand, Tara’s eyes sparkled with joy. Her voice was gentle as she held Pat’s hand. "Pat, I’m not as weak as you think. I heard you’d be back today, so I came to welcome you."

Pat’s expression softened, the tension in his shoulders melting away. He brushed her hair fondly and pushed her wheelchair inside.

Jeanie lingered, looking uncertain. Stacy placed a reassuring arm around her shoulders and offered her a kind smile.

"Miss Elder, I’ve made some pork rib soup for you. You should drink more later," Jeanie said, her voice warm.

Stacy returned her smile sincerely. Among the Taylor household, Jeanie was the only one who offered her any kindness.

But once inside, reality quickly set in.

Jeanie hurried to the kitchen, emerging moments later with Stacy’s favorite dishes. Just as she was about to invite Stacy to eat, a sharp voice rang out.

"Jeanie, whose servant are you?"

Anna Taylor, mother of Pat, descended the staircase, her tone icy and full of disdain. Stacy wasn’t surprised—she was used to such veiled insults.

Across the room, the figure on the sofa turned toward the commotion. Pat remained silent, but Tara spoke up in a soothing tone.

"Aunt, Stacy is a guest. It’s only natural for Jeanie to take care of her. Don’t be upset."

Stacy nearly laughed at Tara’s words. Her so-called kindness was misplaced. In Anna’s eyes, Stacy wasn’t even worth as much as her prized pets.

Back when Alfonso Taylor was alive, Anna pretended to be polite to Stacy. But after his passing, her true colors surfaced. She immediately drove Stacy out and brought Tara, her beloved niece, into the Taylor household, lavishing her with care.

Anna often sang Tara’s praises in front of Stacy. She would recount how Tara’s goodness had won over even Alfonso Taylor. Yet Stacy knew the truth—Alfonso Taylor had reluctantly agreed to accept Tara only after Stacy spoke on her behalf.

And now, that loyalty had left Stacy with nothing but resentment and regret.

She had naively believed it, but she was wrong. Tara was far from being a simple, innocent little white rabbit.

Stacy silently set down the violin. It had been a gift from Pat, and she had planned to return it to him today. Over the years, he had given her many gifts, most of which she never used. Some still had their tags attached. One day, she would return them all.

Alfonso Taylor had made him promise to take care of Stacy for the rest of her life before he passed away. But that wish was an impossible burden. Stacy couldn't stay with him forever, and neither could Pat, who was constantly surrounded by women.

When Tara noticed Stacy’s piano, she covered her mouth in mock surprise. “Stacy, are you playing the piano for me again today?”

Before anyone could respond, she turned to Pat, her face lighting up with glee. “Pat, you’re so good to Tara. You knew I was feeling down today, so you called Stacy just for me, didn’t you?”

Pat hesitated briefly, and Stacy lowered her head. She already knew what he was going to say.

Feeling down? That was hard to believe.

Anna, looking pained, took Tara’s hand and sighed dramatically. “My poor Tara. Losing her parents at such a young age. It’s all your aunt’s fault you’ve been left all alone.”

Pat disliked emotional displays, and his expression darkened. “Mom, enough.”

But Anna continued, her voice trembling with feigned sorrow. “It’s not about me. It’s your father. He’s trying to secure Tara a spot to study abroad at Toronto University. They’re treating her unfairly because of her health...”

Toronto? Did Tara also want to go abroad?

As Anna and Tara chatted, Stacy quietly moved to a corner, trying to disappear. Pat noticed and glanced at her way.

“I’ll take care of it,” he said.

Tara smiled, and Anna seized the opportunity. “Pat, Tara doesn’t just want to go abroad. She must study under Professor Morgan. Only as Robin Morgan’s student can she gain the prestige she deserves.”

“Our Tara is determined to join the national team! You have to help her, Pat.”

Pat nodded, and Anna’s face immediately brightened with relief.

When dinner began, Tara couldn’t resist causing another scene.

“Stacy, I feel so down I can’t eat. Could you play something for me? You know I love your piano.”

All eyes turned to Stacy. She paused, then looked up at Pat.

“What’s so hard about that?” Anna chimed in. “Play something for her. Stacy learned all this just for moments like these.”

Anna always spoke like that. Stacy reminded herself to stay calm, to see it as a way of repaying the Taylor family for all they had done for her.

Pat remained indifferent, sitting at the head of the table. “I haven’t heard you play in a while. Go ahead.”

Stacy clenched her fist under the table, her face a calm mask. At least Pat hadn’t said anything else, or she might have foolishly forgiven him again.

It was just a song. She had played for them countless times before. Forcing a bitter smile, she nodded. “Alright.”

When she opened the guitar case, she realized her palm was bleeding. The pain didn’t register. Her vision blurred as she stepped forward to play.

—Sadness and Sorrow

Winter—a season perpetually heavy with grief. The song felt painfully fitting.

If Pat had looked up even once, he might have seen the despair in Stacy’s eyes. But he didn’t.

Stacy didn’t remember finishing the piece; she only heard Jeanie’s voice mentioning blood.

Pat dabbed his mouth with a silk handkerchief, set down his utensils, and walked over. His gaze fell on her injured hand. Without a word, he asked Jeanie to fetch the medicine box.